Waterfront limousine jersey city nj

There are different cities. Big and small, high and low, stone and wood. Several large cities have their own faces: the Colosseum and Big Ben, the Leaning and Eiffel Towers, the Kremlin and the Bronze Horseman, twin towers and pyramids. Those cities that have their own faces can be counted on the fingers. The rest are similar to each other, like twin brothers. Like dozens and hundreds of twin brothers. But the people living in these cities are still a little different. White, black, slanting, Hispanic, with sidelocks, cowboy hats and earflaps. These signs will help you recognize which part of the world you are in.

In this city, people also look like residents of dozens and hundreds of other cities. And yet they were slightly different from all the others. Everything they undertook, they did a little faster, a little more energetic, a little more persistent.

In the morning they, just like the others, hurried to work, but a little faster than others. And, in the same way, in the evenings they rushed a little faster to their home hearths and household chores. They pushed a little harder and more painfully on the street and apologized more boorishly. They ate a little more than others and were on diets a little more often than others. We talked a little louder on the phone, drove cars a little more dangerously, and ran a little faster across the road at red lights. The women in this city were a little more feminine, the men a little more masculine, and the rats a little more brazen. People loved each other a little more and, in the same way, they hated each other a little more.

It is clear that they loved their city more than other cities. Your city is the great city of New York.

Kim

Today I hated this city. Just like yesterday and the day before yesterday. And three days ago I didn’t even suspect about this hatred of mine. It's just that today they buried Nikolai Vasilyevich, and old Kim kept looking and looking at me. Neither the heavy autumn rain nor the windshield wipers could wipe his face off the windshield of my limousine. Kim stared appreciatively, emotionless, unblinking, keeping me awake at night and now diverting my attention from crazy pedestrians, even crazier taxi drivers, and even more crazy suicidal cyclists.

The fact is that Nikolai Vasilyevich was killed because of me. Nobody knew about it. No one but me and the old Korean Kim. No one even suspected my involvement in his death. And even if someone knew all the details, he would not reproach and blame me. The Korean also did not reproach and did not blame. He just looked at me intently and inquisitively. No matter how I brush it off.

Three days ago, on Saturday, Sanya, my only friend in America, came to me with his wife and daughter. Even though it was noon, it was only the beginning of the day. We walked along the beach, and ahead of us were the sun and sand, the Aquarium and attractions, McDonald's with sandwiches and fried straw potatoes and Coca-Cola, in the evening - some quiet restaurant, and after that - a long evening in the kitchen with the most a large bottle of the cheapest wine and memories of our school days.

A bunch of black guys were walking towards me. Some of them I knew from the basketball court and even drove home a couple of times in my luxury limousine. The face of one seemed vaguely familiar to me, and I automatically glanced around. The guy also looked back at that moment. I walked another twenty meters before, in all the conversations, I remembered where I had seen this guy. I stopped and turned around. The guy ran. He ran from me, from this beach, to the crowded embankment, he ran to hide, to disappear among the people. It was the same young idiot who robbed taxi and limousine drivers. He robbed me three weeks ago.

I didn't know what to do. A dilemma, an elementary dilemma, confronted me. On the one hand, a wonderful day in every respect, on the other, this very fool with a gun. While I was thinking, he almost crossed the beach. But the main thing that stopped me was a few hundred dollars in compensation that I received from my limousine company after the robbery. After all, I knew his acquaintances, so it wouldn't be difficult to find him. Vague doubts still tormented me a little that day and a little more at night. And in the morning, neither light nor dawn, I reported to the police to fulfill my civic duty. But by this time, the life and death of Nikolai Vasilievich had already been thrown on the scales of my very dubious dilemma and outweighed everything: the sun, and the ocean, and the sand, and this whole Saturday day with a bottle of wine under the curtain.

There, at the police station, I told about my meeting the previous day. I did not yet know about Nikolai Vasilyevich and was very surprised at the speed with which the wheels of the police car spun. Albums with photographs went into action again, and an hour later the police brought and interrogated the long and thin Ornaldo - my partner and teammate in basketball, and fifteen minutes later - two more. Police officers in bulletproof vests and helmets appeared and disappeared. After that, no one paid any attention to us, and it was then that Ornaldo whispered to me that a disaster had happened. An hour later, the police finally brought him in.

It was led, surprisingly, by two women in police uniforms. Later, I learned that the police are very harsh with murderers and quite often mutilate them upon arrest. Not on purpose, by accident, and this is true.

Even later, in the afternoon, in the control room, the abstract murder victim suddenly transformed into a cold, but, nevertheless, quite real Nikolai Vasilyevich, my colleague. Since then, Kim's face has stood in front of me and asked an elementary question: what am I doing?

If I had known the answer, I would have answered.

Sanya

For as long as I can remember, I have always been friends with Sanya. Probably, we were, as they say, bosom friends. Only we did not think about it, but simply followed the rule: do not betray or substitute each other. Sanya honestly accepted most of the retaliatory blows of fate in the form of his father's belt on himself, leaving me only the tears of my mother - I did not have a father. In fairness, it should be the other way around - in the vast majority of cases, I was the instigator of our pranks. Again, when we fought with other boys, Sanya, who was a head taller than me, got more. In the end, Sanya's father, a wise man in life, found a simple and correct way to curb our boyish energy and imagination. It happened after we unsuccessfully tested our parachutes.

As a parachute tower, a nearby and well-known construction site was chosen, where we spent most of our time after school. A pile of sand lay very well under the balcony on the third floor, which was still not closed. And here we are with Sanka standing up there. I open my mother's giant umbrella and without hesitation step forward. Without flying even one floor, the umbrella turns inside out. But, apparently, my small weight and the large size of even an inside-out umbrella made it easier to fall, because I get up without help. I hear Sanka shouting to me:

- How are you?

I try to say something like “It hurts…”, but my voice is intercepted by pain. And in a fraction of a second, Sanka, with his folding Japanese umbrella, also crashes into this pile of sand.

It worked out. I mean, no fractures, no dislocations. For half an hour we sat, trying to restore the working capacity of our lower limbs, and then wandered home. Ironically, we managed to restore the functionality of my umbrella, but Sanin looked as if he had been driven over by a skating rink. Of course, it was not possible to hide the loss of the Japanese thing, but the matter did not come to the belt.

The next day, Sanya's father showed up at school and assigned Sanya, and at the same time me, to two sports sections at once - so that we would be busy six days a week. Since then, in the four years of school, we have tried all available sports: boxing and swimming, basketball and volleyball, hockey and football, acrobatics and athletics. Everything was easy for me, but light. I was not particularly fond of any one sport and jumped from one to another. Everything was harder for Sanya, but he jumped with me from one sport to another just as recklessly as with his ill-fated Japanese umbrella from the third floor. Twice I visited a summer sports camp, once even with Sanya. When I returned from the second trip - from the one in which I was without Sanya - I missed him so much that for three days I didn’t leave him - or he left me, I don’t know. After school, Sanya moved to the institute to study as a civil engineer, and I went to a sports masseur.

We also saw each other three times a day, looked after the same girls, a couple of times because of them, girls, we took part in fights. And now I was the main striking force, and Sanya covered my back. Once, not very successfully, with a cut, they left the knife. After that, I enrolled in the aikido section - a type of Korean wrestling, self-defense without weapons. The section was led by a thin, elderly Korean with a completely Korean surname Kim.

The Korean taught us the techniques and basics of self-defense, but this is at the beginning. Then he quietly moved on to the study of the human body, its bones and muscles, the movements of the body and the inertia of blows. Later he switched to yoga and self-contemplation, taught me to look at myself, at my character and my soul, and imperceptibly got into mine. For five years I had not seen him, heard him, and did not know what was the matter with him, whether he was alive. But in my destiny and in my soul, he left a trace deeper than my own father by blood and genes.

Two years after we left school and entered our institutes, Sanya left for America. A couple of years later, he arrived and married Olga, our classmate, and even later, when I had already graduated from the institute and worked for several years as a massage therapist and a children's trainer, he made me entry documents.

And here I am, in America, in New York. In a city that I hate and that I'm about to leave.

Moishe

All this happened on a sunny September Tuesday. And already on Friday, the first of October, on a rainy and gloomy day - to match my mood - I was rolling around New Jersey. In less than three days, I drove my luxury limousine, bought a small and nimble cherry Toyota sedan, and moved out of my one-room apartment with a tiny but separate kitchenette. All my things were in the trunk and in the back seat. I left the new table and chairs that I bought during my stay in the apartment. Let the new tenant rejoice in them just as I once rejoiced at the shaky-legged and variegated representatives of the local furniture industry that I inherited with an apartment.

Even though I worked every free hour to pay off my limousine loan, I didn't get sentimental about my car. Moreover, in return for it, I put a certain amount, a little less than twenty thousand, into my bank account. I was driving and recalled how once such big money, according to my concepts, burned my hands and was rightfully mine, but I never took it. In addition, I already had the same cherry Toyota a year ago.

It happened last year, at the very beginning of September. I have been in America for six months now. The first two months I lived with Sanya and helped him as best I could in his work, and then moved to Brooklyn, moonlighting here and there. For the summer, he got a job as a coach at a children's camp in the mountains, five hours from New York. The season ended, and in the morning the children left. In the afternoon, I closed the pool, collected furniture and sports equipment scattered throughout the territory and put them away for the winter, until the next season.

I was returning alone. On this lonely mountain road, I had to drive most of the way home, almost one hundred and twenty miles - two hundred kilometers. But I was in no hurry. The red-yellow-green rampage of autumn all around added the finishing touch to the past summer. I rolled through the forests and slowly decided where it would be better for me to go to work - as a loader in a store or as a driver in a medical office, transporting imaginary and real patients. And there, and there I already worked, and there, and there they called me again.

You can go and go along this road and not meet anyone. But I met. A Big Old Jeep was parked on the side of the road. About eight people, mostly children, stood and sat around him. The head of this family, an elderly man in a black hat and black raincoat, stood almost in the middle of the road and waved his arms better than a police officer from an old Soviet film. In short, a typical Jew from Borough Park. A gray beard and the same sidelocks added confidence in my guess.

As far as I knew, sidelocks forbid their bearers from robbery on the highway, at least in the presence of children, so I heeded the pleas of his upper limbs and stopped. A flat tire in the rays of the setting sun is really not a very pleasant thing on a desert road. As I understand it, they were returning from their summer home - the car was fully loaded confirmed his words - yes, there was a problem with the wheel. He's already called, but help won't be here until two hours later, and they can pick up the car and two others. Could I pick up the mother and younger children and take them to the nearest motel? Please…

I was in no hurry to answer. First, I could take them home - ten extra minutes to Borough Park did not matter. Secondly, I thought about my spare donut, quietly lying in my trunk. To reload mother and children into my car, reload luggage to the maximum, especially since I could put something on top of the car, and slowly drive home. My Toyota will hold up, I had no doubts about it, so I got out and got a spare tire.

The problem arose when I leaned my spare against his wheel. It was a couple of inches smaller than the native wheel, and compared to the jeep, it generally seemed like a baby. The difference is four inches, and the car, especially the old model, will not withstand such a bias. I thought about it. My plan didn't work. And then I realized: put a spare tire on my car, and my own wheel - to him. He has a slight bias, I have a slight bias, but you can live. At least we have two machines and eight impellers. Somehow we'll get to residential areas, and then we'll see.

Thinking about the situation, I automatically looked around at the family around me. Indeed, eight people. Six children, ranging in age from about three to seventeen. The eldest, like his father, already has sidelocks and a hat. The boy following him is just wearing a hat, and two more are only with kippahs, that is, they are up to thirteen. The two youngest are girls.

I compared the wheel sizes and saw how the hope goes out in the eyes of the older boy - he figured out what the problem was before the others. And then I resolutely dragged the spare back to the car, and they parted just as hesitantly.

I left the spare near my rear wheel and reached into the boot for the jack. When I got it out and started trying it on under my car, the older boy figured out what was what and joined me. He sat down next to me and asked:

- Can I help you?

By this time I had already unscrewed the bolts from the native wheel by this time. He answered simply:

- Spin here until the car rises. And tell your people to unload the car.

And later asked:

– What is your name?

He answered simply:

- Moishe.

Well, Moishe means Moishe. Misha, that is, Mikhail in our opinion.

“And I’m Ilya,” I introduced myself, and we shook hands, as men should.

We put on a spare tire and rolled our own wheel from Toyota to a jeep. Or rather, Moishe rolled it, and he did it with a very proud look. But I trudged along behind him and figured that my jack was obviously insufficient in size for a jeep. Moishe immediately asked his question "Can I help you?" The question related to me, but was designed for the younger generation around us. I answered simply:

- Yes. I need a flat stone, like a brick. Place under the jack.

The guy was quick-witted. Taking his younger brother with him, he went down from the roadside into the forest, and in two minutes the stone I needed was delivered. The load - from twenty to thirty every now and then unleashed packages - by this moment had already been pulled out of the car, the bolts at the wheel were loosened. So I crawled under the car to make a stone, and on it - my jack.

I sat squirming by the car for probably a whole minute, and anger filled me. But I did not splash it out on this lovely family - everything turned out very stupidly. When I realized that I had reached the boiling point, I stood up and silently dragged my wheel and jack back to my car. The Jews - as it turns out, there were a lot of them - parted. In the reverse order, I began to put my wheel in place.

Moishe appeared a minute later. He again sat down next to me and asked in a low voice:

– Elijah… What happened?

– Did you look under your car? I asked after a short silence.

- No, - he answered and, without waiting for my reply, left to look under the car. Then he appeared again and asked his sacramental question:

– Elijah, can I help you?

“Find a way to lower it,” I replied.

Five minutes later, I had already fixed the native wheel and returned the spare tire back to the trunk.

The quick-witted Moishe was already standing near the open trunk of his car, twirling something. There, under the jeep, the spare tire was fixed, and now it was slowly lowering onto the road. And when we disconnected it from the cable, Moishe found a jack in one of the hidden niches. Still covered in oil...

Five hours later both cars were in Brooklyn. We only stopped once to refuel. Moyshe sat next to me all the way. A bunch of kids, four non-Christian souls, were sleeping in the back seat. For five hours, the Big Old Jewish Jeep dangled in front of my eyes.

However, this meeting had a sequel.

The Immortal Regiment campaign took place in New York

More than two thousand people took part in the Immortal Regiment campaign in New York. Americans, Russians, descendants of veterans from Ukraine, Belarus, the Baltic States and other former Soviet republics marched along the Hudson River embankment in Manhattan to Battery Park. The action ended with a minute of silence and the song "Cranes", under which dozens of white balloons were released into the sky over Manhattan.

More than two thousand people took part in the Immortal Regiment action in New York. The procession was international - Americans, Russians, descendants of veterans from Ukraine, Belarus, the Baltic States and other former Soviet republics walked in the column, reports TASS .

People walked along the Hudson River in Manhattan to Battery Park opposite the Statue of Liberty with portraits of their grandfathers and great-grandfathers who served on the war fronts. The action traditionally ended with a minute of silence in memory of those who died on the fronts of the Second World War and the song "Cranes", under which dozens of white balloons were released into the sky over Manhattan, symbolizing soldiers who did not return from the battlefield.

Russia's Permanent Representative to the UN Vasily Nebenzya took part in the action, he carried a portrait of his father Alexei, RBC reports .